


Recalibration

by Quercusrobur



Series: Stripes and Stars and Jack [2]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, F/M, Far Future, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Post-Episode: s11e02 The Ghost Monument, Regeneration Angst (Doctor Who), The Doctor (Doctor Who) Needs a Hug, Worldbuilding, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22002028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quercusrobur/pseuds/Quercusrobur
Summary: Someoneclearly needs recalibrating, but considering whom they've come to, the Doctor isn't sure which of them the TARDIS thinks needs work.A newly-regenerated Doctor, a Jack who already knows her quite well. My usual mix of love and heartbreak. This is the prequel/sequel toSay Hello.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Series: Stripes and Stars and Jack [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1583767
Comments: 53
Kudos: 222





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Before Say Hello for the Doctor; long after it, for Jack._   
>    
>  _This series has gone AU in a hurry, so uh. Oops, but also *excited fanboy screaming*_   
>    
>  _OK technically only Say Hello is AU so far. I really hope we don't get "Oh, I haven't seen you since I had emo hair and a long brown coat", I really hope Chibnall leaves that open. Certainly it's still open for now._

“Perfectly safe,” the Doctor repeats, waving her hands. “Off you go, then.”

Graham is still eyeing her sceptically, but he is the only one not won over yet. Ryan cranes his head around at the sprawling city they have landed in, carved vertiginously into the side of an immense striated cliff hanging over an indigo sea; Yaz watches the wildly diverse crowd ebbing and flowing in the streets and across the rooftops and along the highlines and through the air with a trained if overwhelmed eye. It isn’t where the Doctor had meant to be. Again. But it is, she is beginning to suspect, exactly where the TARDIS had meant to be. Who’s in charge here, anyway? The TARDIS glows warmly at her and the Doctor concedes the point. She always does, eventually.

“Wicked,” Ryan breathes, pointing to a formation of bright-winged gliders dropping toward the sea. Their wings glint in the golden light of a sun low in the sky even at the apex of its arc, shedding reflections and scattered rainbows as they break away and upwards in all directions.

“You sure we can’t stay, Doc?” Graham asks.

The Doctor shakes her head. “Sorry, Graham. Got to take down the radiation shields so I can poke about and try to find what’s wrong with the navigation. It won’t be safe for humans.”

“Radiation shields? How's it safe out _here_ , then?” Clever Yaz. The Doctor grins.

“Internal shields. Too much time energy in there for you. Go on. I’ll find you a nice place to stay if it’s going to be a while.” She shoos them away again, leans against the TARDIS to watch as they slowly make their way into the crowd, waves reassuringly. Nothing out of place about them here, at least; the city is clearly tourist-based, safe and easy for any number of species to get around with little trouble. Once her unintentionally-kidnapped human friends are out of sight the Doctor turns to lay her hand against the TARDIS’s blue door, lets go the tight hold she has kept on her time sense since arriving here and feels the pull upward, toward the burning stillness of a fixed point in human form.

“What are you thinking?” she sighs, shaking her head as the TARDIS sings encouragingly. “Yes, fine, I’m going.”

 _Someone_ clearly needs recalibrating, but considering whom they've come to, the Doctor isn't sure which of them the TARDIS thinks needs work.

+-+

Jack isn't Torchwood, here. He isn't Galactic Heritage, or Imperial Black Ops, or search and rescue; he isn't even local law enforcement. He isn't anything much, and he loves it that way. He is simply an eccentric, long-time resident with an odd penchant for forgetting all the neighbors' names periodically and a habit of admiring the view with unusual enthusiasm. And as long as he doesn't make a mistake on the time travel and end up gone for longer than he expects - or worse, double up on himself - that's all he will remain.

More or less. Old habits die hard, after all, and these habits are older than dirt.

The Doctor and her friends are still standing near the TARDIS when Jack gets the alert that the omnipresent cameras have detected the appearance of a blue box matching his parametres; anyone else will have to glean that information through subtle but effective obscuring filters. It's stripes-and-stars, the one he always pictures as a whirling bit of yellow and blue, here again gone again in the cosmic breeze. She sends her friends away, although they look less than comfortable with the idea, and waits near the TARDIS until they are out of sight. Then she pats the door fondly, shakes her head as she says something, and turns away.

Jack doesn't actually watch her all the way up to his eyrie. He knows where she's going, even if she doesn't seem sure about it. Instead he pays through the nose for reservations and a guide for her friends - it _would_ be in character for her to stop by today, he supposes - drops his feet from his desk, and crosses to the door. “Ambris, you still here?”

There is a bit of a scramble as another set of shoes drops from another desk. “Aye, Captain.”

“Why?”

“Well, I - someone might come by?” Ambris is adorable in a scattered sort of way, always looking a bit surprised by events without ever failing to do what needs doing. Jack delights in making them look surprised as often as possible.

Arms crossed, Jack leans against the doorframe. “No one’s coming today. Get out of here, gorgeous, go look up that pretty green-haired girl who slipped you her card yesterday. Got an old friend stopping by, I’ll close up.”

“I don’t believe _gorgeous_ is an appropriate address for an employee during working hours, Captain,” Ambris says, but they smile as they unfold themself from their seat, long limbs stretching like a cat across the room toward Jack.

Jack grins and flips a switch to turn the lights off and change the sign outside the office to _closed_. “How’s that, gorgeous?”

That adorable wide-eyed look again. In point of fact Morilosi always look round-faced and innocent to humans, but even after Jack had come to know them personally Ambris retained an unusually cherubic look. It's deceptive, Jack discovered equally quickly; they enjoy their tourist-facing job far too much to be any sort of innocent. One fur-covered, multi-jointed limb sneaks around Jack's back and sweeps him off his feet as Ambris leans forward to lick his neck thoroughly, still looking surprised. 

Mouth full of fur, Jack laughs. "Give a man a little warning next time." 

"Aye, I'll keep that in mind for the next one I meet," Ambris agrees, simultaneously making a rattling sort of purr as Jack's fingers caress their neck in turn.

"Go on, get out of here," Jack says gently after another minute. "Go have fun. Don't come in till noon tomorrow. Actually, don't come in at all, no one else will."

The surprise seems more genuine this time, but Ambris sets him carefully back on his feet with a final ticklish lick under his collar. The pheromone profile in fashion when he was born has certainly served him well. "That kind of friend, are they?"

Jack shakes his head and smiles. "No telling with her."

"Well. Have fun, I'm sure, Captain. Thanks!" Slinging their bag over their back, Ambris pulls on their gloves and lopes out the door on all fours, the extra joints in their long limbs lending them an insectile grace.

"Oh, always that," Jack assures the empty room. He locks the door just for grins. It's been - well, who knows anymore, but it's been a long time since Jack has seen this Doctor. Not so long since he's seen _the_ Doctor, of course, but if someone gets to pick and choose which one he gets it surely isn't Jack. At least this one _likes_ him. Still, she’ll be happier if she feels like she is sneaking in, he thinks.

It takes the Doctor another ten minutes on the winding, climbing streets of Allemande to reach his door; meanwhile Jack bestirs himself to the loo to freshen up. Bad form to present oneself for a date still smelling of someone else. He doesn’t have a shower here, but he does keep an extra change of clothes for just this sort of situation. As Jack is drying his face he feels the pressure change of the door opening, accompanied by a few muffled footfalls.

"Make yourself comfortable, Doctor! Just getting ready for my hot date tonight," he calls, but she doesn’t answer and the silence stretches thin. Fresh shirt only half on, he leans back into the lobby. "Doc?"

A bright, brittle smile lights the Doctor's face the moment Jack's eyes meet hers; his welcoming grin dies in the same moment. Something is wrong. "Captain! We were just in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop in and say hi - hi," she adds with a cheerful wave, but ruins it by stuffing her hands in her coat pockets and glancing back toward the door. "Wouldn't want to keep you from it, you know how it is, always moving on -"

“Oh, hey, no -” _That_ sort of day. Unshod, shirt hanging loose, Jack hurries over to her, reaches carefully to tuck that spill of bright hair behind her ear so she can't hide behind it. “With you, Doctor. My date with you." She watches him as sharply as the razor-billed seabirds outside. "Hey, come on, you know me. I assumed you were here for the party. I'm sorry. You need me for something?"

"What party is that?" the Doctor doesn't answer, moving no closer to him; still, a little of the tension leaves her. Something Jack said was on the right track. He has yet to meet an incarnation of the Doctor who doesn't reflexively hide - well, everything, really. It’s just the methods that change.

"Winter Solstice tonight," Jack says with his most charming smile, letting his voice go deep and warm. He coaxes the Doctor's right hand up out of her pocket and settles it on his shoulder, holds her left hand in his right against his chest, fingers twined loosely. "Just the time of year I ought to expect you, really."

The light coming in through the windows is dimming quickly; it casts her face into shadows. "I don't think… Jack, I don't think I do Christmas anymore," she says, like an apology, like a plea for forgiveness. Jack steps back slowly and finds himself very relieved when, after a slight hesitation, she matches him.

"Who does? Not what I meant, anyway." He doesn’t know which of them takes the next step first.

“What did you mean, then, Captain?”

The chain of her earring jingles ever so slightly and a wisp of her hair escapes as they find a common time, but Jack thinks a hint of smile escapes as well. He is too tall, and nothing he can do will change that; but nothing anyone can do will change the fact that where the Doctor leads, he will follow. Her arms are steady as they turn together in the waning light.

“Happy New Year, Doctor.”

+-+


	2. Chapter 2

New Year, that’s… new. It does seem to resonate, though, another little piece of the puzzle falling into place, another buzzing little fragment of _self_ pulled out of the tumultuous cloud of possibility that always surrounds her after a regeneration. No more crackers, no more paper crowns. No more… other things. “Happy New Year,” the Doctor says, tasting the words. They sound hopeful.

Jack smiles as she turns him so she can see out the window, watch the sun arcing its way into the sea to wait out the longest night. For all he is much too tall now, it is surprisingly pleasant to stop running for a moment and let proximity draw their paths into the simple looping dance of two bodies spinning about their common barycentre. It feels a little dangerous, slowing down, but the Doctor has been running since she fell from the sky over Sheffield and she is so tired. Here at last there is nothing to deal with, nothing to adjust to, nothing to save; just the Doctor and the Captain, and as long as she has two feet to move in time, two arms to hold against Jack, the rest of the particulars don’t matter.

In fact Jack could almost certainly make do with different numbers of appendages just as easily.

As they move in the quiet room, Jack hums an unfamiliar melody and doesn’t for a moment look as though he might want anything from her beyond her presence, not answers or explanations or a rescue or a ride home or anything else. His hand is warm and steady on her back and the long light and shadows feel oddly welcoming - like the TARDIS’s new look, like the only new thing that has never felt a bit of wrong. Nearly time-blind in the glare of the fixed point in her arms, the Doctor closes her eyes as well and leans against Jack's welcoming strength for a moment, trusting him not to let her steer him into furniture.

Her head pops back upright. “Do you have a cat?” Jack laughs, and the sound shakes apart some of the tight tangle of distress that has taken up residence where the Doctor is certain she used to have viscera, once upon a time. She leans in to sniff again. “No, not a cat -”

“Just an inappropriate relationship with my secretary,” Jack supplies, still laughing.

“That does seem more in character,” the Doctor agrees, leading him into a quicker step. Dancing is good. _Boring_ dancing is not. “You do inappropriate like it’s going out of style.”

“Hey, I am never out of style.”

“ _Retro_ , don’t they call that?"

"I was thinking _archetypal_ , actually."

" _Antique_ , maybe - Jack!” A hand has slid down to her backside and Jack is grinning at her. “I didn’t come here to be groped!”

Head tilted in genuine if amused confusion, Jack says, “You didn’t?”

“Erm.” The Doctor blinks thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so. But I understand the confusion.” One of those delightful flickering storms of emotion washes over Jack's face, finally settling on a bemused smile.

“I’m very good at it,” he offers, and maybe it’s that ever-hopeful tone of voice or maybe it’s the real concern beneath it or maybe it’s the towering exhaustion she keeps pushing back, back, back, but it strikes the waylaid Time Lord as terrifically funny. She snorts and folds forward to laugh against Jack’s shoulder and his arms are gentle around her and it’s going to turn into tears if she doesn’t watch out and why _did_ she come here, then, if not for Jack? Why _would_ things be different? Nothing needs to be different, not with Jack.

“You’ve an unfair amount of practice,” the Doctor says into the soft folds of his shirt; their feet have stopped moving. The stillness feels exposed and the Doctor steps away, looking for distraction. “And how come I always find you hiding away in the dark?”

Rolling his eyes, Jack watches her poke around. “We’re _closed,_ Doctor. How come I always find you running away from something?” The familiar sting of Jack’s tendency to prod at weak points is nearly as much a comfort as his unconditional acceptance. No one is going to call her _dearie_ here, or _love_ \- or at least if Jack does, he will mean it very differently - no one is going to treat her like she’s breakable, no one is going to expect her to be polite. That last one is insidious. No one expected her to be polite when she had attack eyebrows. Get away with anything, with attack eyebrows.

“I didn’t _ask_ her to find you,” the Doctor snaps.

“Rarely do,” Jack says with a sideways nod, rolling with the punch, but surely, _surely_ , she didn't come here to hurt him?

“Been asking her to take us to Earth, actually, but she’s still feeling a little off-colour. I expect we’re only here because you’re her favourite extra pair of hands.” That hadn’t come out nearly as dismissively as the Doctor had intended, the terror of watching her third heart explode in the darkness above her still much too recent.

“I am, as always, at her service.” He watches from the middle of the room as the Doctor circles, peering at the wall displays, picking up the papers on the inappropriate secretary’s desk. “Hey,” Jack objects mildly as she makes to open the drawers. “Privacy. Go through mine, if you like.”

"Killjoy." It’s no fun with permission, and Jack knows it.

"Turnabout is fair play. Best get to it, then, so you can get back to running,” he suggests as he starts buttoning the open front of his shirt along the shoulder, still patiently attentive.

Still maddeningly calm as he calls the Doctor’s bluff.

+-+


	3. Chapter 3

_I didn’t ask her to find you_. Jack has heard it before, if usually somewhat fonder in tone; it’s practically as good as _I missed you_ from this one. He wonders if she knows that, yet. The Doctor's eyes slide away from his, away from the threat of imminent departure, and Jack sighs in relief. He had been almost completely certain she was bluffing.

A tremor goes through the Doctor at his sigh, not even enough to be called a shudder. She closes her eyes for a moment and her shoulders fall as all the fight runs out of her. Nothing to fight against, here. Jack can do that too, of course, but it isn’t what she needs today.

“What do you do here? It’s all… tourist-y. You have _brochures_.” She picks one up, apparently just to frown at it; then her face lights in one of those quicksilver changes of mood she uses to hide so much, that nearly-constant crease between her brows smoothing out as she tucks the distress away. “Oh! This is another one of your fronts, isn't it, for the cloak-and-dagger business? Friendly front office, shiny little brochures, pretty secretary, no services. You've got a secret door around here, yeah? A button? You must have a proper bat cave hidden away somewhere.” Jack laughs as the Doctor leans across Ambris's desk - pretty secretary indeed - to grope at the edge with both hands, then slithers around the side to upend herself and examine the underside with her sonic screwdriver. "Wrong desk?" she asks around the fall of her coat, grinning up at him like a demented wet dream.

“Wrong life,” Jack says, slightly strangled; that coat really does cling quite enchantingly. Her grin goes a little sharper. Smiling unapologetically, Jack offers a hand to pull her up instead of anything he’d rather do. “Paragliding. You wouldn’t believe the updrafts we get here.”

The Doctor doesn't take his hand, but she does roll herself upright, stop looking _quite_ so tempting. "Sounds nice," she says unenthusiastically, "very…"

"Boring?"

"Very boring," the Doctor agrees, visibly relieved. Tucking her hair behind her ear again, she looks up, hands on hips, to examine the wing stretched across the ceiling. "Extremely boring, no secret lair, no saving the world, no - well, no, _no aliens_ isn’t right, is it? On the upside, there mustn't be much getting shot either, I approve of that."

"Hardly any," Jack concedes.

Chin snapping down again, the Doctor eyes him sceptically. "You’re that bad of an instructor?"

"Hey! I'm almost positive it was an accident."

After a long moment wherein she simply stares at him, lips pursed, the Doctor shakes her head. "Don't want to know. Ooh, that doesn't sound like me, does it? Don't think I'll be sayin' _that_ much."

“Not so much,” Jack agrees, watching as her focus turns inward again, hollowing out the animation in her face to a blank-eyed mask before swallowing it altogether. Still new, then, still learning the shape of herself. The chatter has run dry and the Doctor looks back at him silently, boots planted firm and square but somehow giving the impression of being an unwary breath from bolting out the door. “Rather still be running?” Jack asks gently.

She wouldn’t at all, of course, and Jack knows it; she washes up against his shore with some regularity when the jaws of all that chases her become too much. But it helps if she knows it too. Resuming her circuit of the room, the Doctor pokes her head into the doorway to the short hall and then the one that leads to his office as Jack slips by her to fetch his boots. She glances with a concerning lack of curiosity at his desk, then continues, still silent, back around to the front. As she presses her nose against the window Jack comes to stand at her shoulder.

“No,” the Doctor admits, finally. “Never can run far enough.” Not from herself.

“Good,” Jack says, and slides his arms around her waist to hold her close, protection and comfort and never, never confinement. “You wouldn’t believe how much those last minute reservations for your friends cost.”

“Oh, did you? I was just going to,” the Doctor gestures vaguely, “bzzrt.”

Rolling his eyes even though she can’t see it, Jack sighs in mock despair. “You time travelers, wandering around thinking money is just a meaningless string of bits. Nightmare for the economy, you are.”

“No worse than a stray cosmic ray.”

“Except for the poor suckers who’d be out on their ears. This is better, trust me. And I sent the best guide I know after them to keep them out of trouble, you don’t need to worry. So, Doctor.” Setting her free, Jack steps to the side and offers a gallant hand. “We can go out dancing, or browse all the little shops, or sample the nibbles, or just find somewhere quiet and watch the lights. But let’s _go_ , or we’ll miss the sundiver. And you shouldn’t. It’s bad luck.”

That frown line is back between her brows, something lost and lonely in her eyes. “Why am I here, Jack?”

“You’ve had a rough few days,” Jack says, raising his hand to touch her earring, scatter the last light of a dying year along the chain always reaching for the stars. It’s an odd process, regeneration. Someone all new, all at once, and then she has to find out _who_. Stripes and stars, flung hopefully into the dark. “Rough regeneration. Lots of changes. You’re still…” _So new_. What had she said? “Everything feels wrong, but you also feel like this is the way you’ve always been. Yeah? And this time it’s every step you take that the dissonance hits you, if you’re not distracted. You need to let it settle.”

“And you,” the Doctor says softly, searching his face, “looking at me like that, why does that help?”

“Because you’re the Doctor,” Jack says, helpless to prevent the soppy smile taking over his face, “and I’m a fool for you. And that’s the way it’s always been. No changes here.”

Finally she reaches for him, brushes a thumb over his lips, touches just the pads of her fingers to his face. "Thank you," she says, barely a whisper.

Jack grins. "Can I kiss you now?"

Those lovely new lips tilt upwards, brown eyes narrow at him in amusement. "Buy me a drink first."

+-+


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I got angst in my fluff, sorry. Seems to happen. CW: discussion of suicide._

They don’t miss the sundiver, but the Doctor almost wishes they had.

Whilst he had been talking her around, Jack had betrayed no urgency at all; but once he is certain they are going, it must be _now_. He pulls the Doctor along the street to the first steep switchback curve, where the view widens precipitously and all the city lies open to the Doctor’s view, stretching down and down and down until tiny winding trails between matchbox buildings meet the indigo sea. A cold, briny wind carries the joyful sound of those masses of people filling the streets, three far-from-home humans among them. The sun is just touching the horizon as the Doctor squeezes between two groups of partygoers to lean over the chest height wall, utterly enthralled; Jack props his elbows beside her.

“Just made it,” he says on a sigh, watching the sun slip lower.

“Made what?” the Doctor asks absently, wondering at the accident of geography that produced such a city, perfectly situated to watch the entire arc of the midwinter sun. And never see the sun cross the horizon in the summer, she supposes, the ends of that long arc hid by the cliff at their backs. She feels it then, the turning, tipping, whirling, of the planet beneath her, whipping in mad lockstep about its primary, angles and axes driving seasons in a sinusoidal shift whose limit will be reached within hours. She almost reaches out, almost dips her fingers into the current of time running deep and strong here, always and especially _here_ -

“Watch,” the fixed point says in Jack’s voice. Startled, the Doctor almost lets go.

From out of the sunken ball of fire on the horizon rises a spark so bright it leaves trails across her vision, a speck of starstuff brought terrifyingly near. Following the arc the sun so recently traced across the sky, it climbs higher and higher until, just as the trailing limb of light disappears, it breaks away from the ecliptic to make a new path. It seems larger now, coming closer very swiftly.

“What is it?” the Doctor asks, staring outward, trying to make sense of the afterimages.

“Watch,” Jack says softly. The whole city has gone quiet.

Four minutes since the spark appeared and the Doctor can make out the elongated shape of a glider; five minutes and she can tell it must be thirty metres or more in wingspan, the whole of it aflame with white-hot fire. “Jack -”

“It’s alright. No one needs rescuing. Just watch.”

Six minutes and the glider’s path turns artistic, no longer cutting like an arrow through the cold wind but riding it, dropping into wide loops and shearing up in blazing arcs as though the sky were the natural home of fire. As it comes closer shadows leap up across the city, stark and dancing; the Doctor holds her hands up to watch. With the sun only minutes past the horizon it isn’t dark yet but the light cast by this second tiny star turns all familiar things strange. Moment by moment now it seems to lose manoeuvrability, as if its feathers were being plucked one by one. With one last turn shockingly close to the streets below the glider heads back toward the sea, rising and rising -

And then falling, a sudden dramatic plunge, and a pillar of fire erupts from the sea to mark its passing. The city cries out, all together; the Doctor takes a breath. All that remain are the afterimages.

Jack’s eyes are closed, head tilted back. The Doctor frowns. Something about the display is bothering her, but certainly it all seemed to go as planned; so what’s wrong with Jack? After a moment of hesitation, she slips her hand into his, suppresses the shiver at the feeling of being engulfed. She has always loved his hands. It seems immensely unfair that anything should happen to make her uncomfortable with them.

Jack looks down at her and smiles, wistful and sad but genuine even so. “A lucky year,” he says. “Come on, let’s go find that drink.”

As they start down the hill, the Doctor asks, “What does _kirit_ mean?” Oddly, the TARDIS had provided no translation.

“It was her name," Jack says, which is half an explanation at best.

“ _Whose_ name?”

“The glider pilot. The sundiver.”

That immense gilder? “Just one person was flying that monstrosity?”

“Just one,” Jack agrees, glancing at her, and away. The Doctor has the feeling she is missing something. “What do you like to drink?”

Distracted, the Doctor’s face falls. “Don’t know, do I?”

“Well, then,” Jack says, raising her hand to his lips to kiss it. “We’ll just have to try everything.” As darkness spreads across the sky, the city lights up to compensate, streetlights and fairy lights, fluorescent signs and bioluminescent lanterns, open windows and doors; and the people flowing through it all carry light with them as well.

“Everything,” the Doctor repeats. She can feel the smile spreading across her face. “Brilliant. I love trying everything.”

By means of profligate use of real, local currency, Jack procures an impressively good start on _everything_ at a colourfully lit pub not much further down the city. The brightly dressed Hath who brings the tray of seventeen small containers of various sorts - tumblers, bowls, double- and triple-chambered stoppered bottles - bubbles cheerfully at the Doctor and winks at Jack. “Must be a good friend!”

“The best and oldest of them,” Jack replies solemnly, eyes smiling.

The Doctor pokes him. “Oi! Rude. You’re no spring chicken yourself.”

The Hath laughs. “I’ll skip the warning, then. Be welcome, enjoy!”

As she disappears into the crowd the Doctor frowns. “What do you get up to around here that deserves a warning?”

Long-suffering sigh tempered by a wry smile, Jack shakes his head as he sorts through the drinks. “She was going to warn you not to lose your heart.”

“Oh. Well, then.” _Too late_. His eyes flicker up to hers, warm and unguarded for just a moment, and the Doctor smiles helplessly back.

Although the bubbly, sparkly, multi-part offerings draw the Doctor’s attention, Jack hands her a simple crystal flute with something the color of glacier ice in it to start. “It’s worth trying on a clean palate,” he promises. The Doctor sips it and feels as though she has swallowed a snowstorm. Jack chuckles as she works her jaw, exhales carefully on the side of the glass to find out whether the snow inside will come back out. It doesn’t.

“I feel,” the Doctor says thoughtfully, “rather like a snow globe. Rather like…” She takes another sip, and this time can feel it slide down, thicker than water, cold in a delightfully odd way that does not leave a chill. Like a stillness in the winter landscape, where the wind does not steal warmth. “If you tipped me over -” Gently, Jack pushes her back to plumb as she lists experimentally to the side.

“Happy to help with that later,” he suggests with an attempt at a leer that comes out much too fond to take offense at. “Lay off that one for now, maybe. Time Lords… never know what's gonna make you go gaga.”

As they work their way through the tray Jack pauses often to greet people he knows or respond to hails from across the room, friendly calls of good luck and good fortune and teasing congratulations on his inexplicable companion. “Old friend,” he explains loudly, at least five times.

“Where’s Ambris?” someone calls.

“Lying to the tourists downtown, I’m sure!” Jack answers. “I sent them off early.”

The Doctor looks up from her fifth concoction, something from one of the double-chambered bottles that turns foamy and fragrant when combined. “Ambris, that’s your inappropriate secretary?”

Jack chuckles, but he sounds oddly wistful when he says, “They’re no sort of secretary, really. You should see them in the air, Doctor, should have been born with wings.” Then he shrugs and grins. “Inappropriate is spot on, though, have to admit.”

“You’re a granter of wishes now?”

“Everyone needs a hobby.”

The Doctor makes it through another seven flavours of _everything_ , including a fizzy pink one that tastes like nothing so much as lemonade and is a strong contender for _best of_ , before she realises what was wrong with the sundiver. "I didn't see a parachute, Jack."

"No," he says, as if he has been waiting for it. Chin propped on hand, he watches her solemnly. "You didn't."

The Doctor swallows, then asks anyway. "Was there a parachute?"

"No," Jack says. His eyes have gone deep and old and so, so weary. "There wasn't."

She had watched, but not seen. "What was it made of? The glider."

"Wax and paper," he sighs. "A prayer to the sun. And a fair bit of magnesium. Fire and wind and hope. A great deal of joy."

"Death," the Doctor whispers.

Jack nods. "That, as well."

" _Why?_ " Why did she do it, why do they do it, _why does Jack allow it?_

His eyes bore into hers, hardened by experience, sharp with accusation, as if he could hear the questions unvoiced. “Some people,” he says quietly, trusting her to hear him through the noise, “some people, all they want, the only dream they have, is to be known at the last, to be remembered. To go out in a blaze of glory. Who am I to deny that?”

“That’s the kind of wish you grant?” the Doctor demands angrily, put in mind of every cautionary tale of the trickster god, the malevolent granter-of-wishes, of every wisher who discovers their heart’s desire to be other than what they imagined. “Giving people what you wish you could have?”

Jack stares back impassively. “Bit self-righteous this time around, are you?”

For a moment it is all the Doctor can do to stay in her chair; her hands are itching to slap that knowing look off his face. _It’s wrong_ , she wants to snap. _I’ll put a stop to it_. Because she knows what right and wrong are. She knows what is best.

_Do I have the right?_

The Doctor takes a deep breath, slightly queasy with whiplash, and looks away. “Maybe.” Isn’t she always?

“I hope you didn’t pick friends who think you’re infallible,” Jack says, even more quietly. Then he rubs a hand over his face and when the Doctor looks back there is only pain left in his eyes. “As it happens, sometimes, yes, that is the kind of wish I grant. Ambris…” Voice hitching, his lips twitch up into a bleak smile. “Ambris will be the sundiver, next year.”

“Oh, Jack…” Anger gone as quickly as it came, the Doctor reaches across the table for his hand. Just an unwanted, interfering visitor; Jack doesn’t need her help. “Why are you sitting here with me?” she asks, trying to banish the sudden vision of Jack standing on a rooftop a year from now, hand outstretched to that last, lowest dive, watching another beloved life slip irretrievably through his fingers.

“What, instead of Ambris?” Smile turning more real, thawing the ice in his eyes, Jack’s fingers curl gently around hers. “They’re busy living it up, Doc, all of life’s goodness in a few short years. I’m too old for that kind of thing. I’m glad you’re here.”

+-+


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes Jack wonders if he truly is as the Doctor suggested: the worst gift-giver in the universe, dispensing the deaths he wishes he could have. If his own unreachable desire is so strong he chases each glimmer of fellow-feeling he finds and gives it wings. He doesn’t think so, most of the time, but the Doctor has always had a habit of striking straight to the heart and Jack has long since lost the dubious privilege of having his feelings spared. Maybe never had it.

He wouldn’t take it if it were offered, anyway. Jack has always loved playing with fire.

Eyes closed, Jack smiles into his drink as he listens to the noise around them. Here high in the city there are few tourists just now, most of them downtown where the party will be in full swing all night, until the sun rises on a new year. Yearnight in Allemande is a city-wide production, the population as much as tripling for a few days; if he cared to open for business tomorrow some would come. He usually does. But he and Ambris both have better things to do this year, and next year… Well, he won’t be open for business next year, either.

In the centre of the city there is a monument, a stone arch, endpoints aligned just so to carry the midwinter sun from rising to setting across its back; and into it another name is being carved. That is where Jack will be, next year.

“This is my favourite,” the Doctor announces, pulling Jack’s attention back to the noise of the pub, the tempered joy of a celebration acknowledging death along with life and rebirth, the light every being in Allemande will spend the night spilling out into the dark. Next year can wait. For now he is here: home, among friends, with the Doctor.

Jack glances at her and pauses, mouth half open, sudden heat under his collar. “Mercy, Doctor,” he groans. She has finally tried the undata creme, the most boring looking of the delicacies Jack had ordered. The thick dark-speckled white of it paints her upper lip as she stares up at Jack through her lashes, eyes wide and delighted, tongue emerging in quick flicks as she examines the subtle fruity taste. Jack’s self-control makes a mad dash for safety. “Can I kiss you yet? _Please?_ ”

Pulling the shallow bowl toward her protectively, the Doctor licks her lip clean as she considers. “I suppose you did buy me a drink. Lots of drinks. Might as well try it. But if you’re trying to steal my whatever-this-is, Captain, it’s not going to work. Get your own.”

“When has me wanting to kiss you ever been anything but me wanting to kiss you?” Jack asks, reaching to brush a thumb across her cheek, slide his fingers into the smooth fall of hair. He tugs lightly and the Doctor leans forward, rolling her eyes.

“How about the time on Mekkshk Ulush, with the conversion coil under your tongue? Or that time I was going to be executed and you sold that absolutely rubbish sob story about needing a last kiss so you could -"

" _That_ was art," Jack interrupts, and shuts her up the only way that ever works, as artistically as he can with a table in the way. It's obvious she is giving it a try with full willing - Jack, at least, is regretting the public venue almost immediately - but much too soon she is pushing him away, hand gentle but firm against his elbow. Jack lets his hand fall and sits back, eyebrow arched quizzically. "And they fell for it hook, line, and sinker," he adds, waiting for the verdict.

"You do pathetic so well," the Doctor says, but her hearts aren't in it. "I'm sorry, Jack. I don't think I'm much for kissing this time around either." _What?_ Memory suggests that doesn’t turn out to be the case, but he can’t very well argue with her on a statement like that, can he? _Sure you are, here, I’ll prove it_ has been the caption of a number of attempted assaults he has broken up over the years. Although he narrowly manages to turn his startled exclamation into a thoughtful _mm?_ Jack apparently fails to keep the consternation from his face because she adds defensively, “I’m not _against_ it. I just don’t think I see the point. Dancing was alright. Nice. With you.”

He had forgot how new she is for a moment. _Not against it_ is a significant improvement over her last self, at that. “Alright,” Jack says gamely, wondering if he is meant to tell her the point or wait for her to figure it out herself. Probably the latter. Demonstrably she _does_ , eventually.

"If she won't kiss you, sweetheart," a familiar voice says in Jack's ear as the warm weight of a hand lands on his shoulder, "you know there's plenty as will."

Laughing, Jack twists to look up at another old friend. "Lucky year, Bram! And you'll be first in line, will you?"

"Already am," he points out, and leans down to steal his kiss as Jack attempts to explain that not kissing is not actually a problem, in this case - which is not a problem either. Jack tilts his face up happily, and minds the fangs.

"Oi," the Doctor interrupts, less happily. "That's my Captain you're molesting."

Bram grins at her, which tends to alarm people; for once he looks like he wants to complain that his audience is not alarmed _enough_. “This one,” he says, squeezing Jack’s shoulder, “doesn’t belong to anyone. Didn’t you get the warning?”

Sweet as poisoned honey the Doctor says, "No, sorry! Must have missed that."

Jack waves his hand frantically to cut her off. That voice never leads to good things. "Old friend," he says, patting Bram's hand and subtly nudging him away. "Haven't seen her in ages. Have a great night, love, I think I heard Wolly over in the corner." Amused, Bram shrugs and wanders off. The Doctor is scowling at him. Jack lets her stew for a minute before pointing out, “I was just saying hello. Actually.”

“You said this was a date.”

“ _You_ said you weren’t much for kissing.”

“ _You_ \- hmph.” Sulkily she pokes her finger into the bowl of undata creme, sucks it off absentmindedly, frowning at him the while. It’s hilariously adorable. Feeling himself losing control of his face, Jack rests his chin in his hand again, covering his mouth with his fingers. “I can see you, you know,” she says, disgruntled.

Jack lets the smile come. “I live here,” he points out. “Lots of people I’m on kissing terms with.” He watches her vindictive enjoyment until he is shifting uncomfortably in his chair and her frown has turned into a smirk, then suggests, “Look, if you’re not actually going to drink that, I’d be happy to -”

“Mine!” she snaps, but she is laughing at him as she raises the bowl to her mouth. Her face melts into that open expression of delight again and Jack can’t take his eyes off her, soaking in the rare sight. She lowers the bowl, licks her lips slowly. “You’re looking a little distracted, Captain.”

“You’re being a little distracting, Doctor.” He tries to match her breezy tone but with his eyes glued to the movement of her tongue he suspects he succeeds rather poorly. If he got himself a bowl, might she lick it off _his_ lips? Off other things…? He seems to remember using custard to good effect, long, long ago. Maybe that would be enough of a point.

“I’m doing no such thing,” the Doctor lies nonchalantly, mopping up the last of the undata creme with a lazy finger, eyes slitted in pleasure as she laps at it. Instead of answering Jack just groans quietly and settles his chin back into his hand to watch her, giving her the audience she probably doesn’t even know she wants yet. She never does admit she is teasing until she has him tied in knots; possibly not even to herself. “And that ridiculous besotted look is going to ruin your reputation.”

“Joke’s on you, I’m afraid,” Jack murmurs, well aware his smile has gone even more idiotic. If there is ever a Doctor who can do this without insulting him, Jack hasn’t met them yet. “My reputation says I’m a man in exile, love lost out among the stars.” One of the explanations, anyway. He has been here, from Allemande’s point of view, for more than forty consecutive years; but those years span centuries of his own life. The unseen gaps make for strange effects on this end. “The gossip is going to be _wild_.”

“Oh,” the Doctor says, all artifice discarded as she peers at him in surprise. “ _Oh_.” Jack can see the wheels turning, emotions flickering under the surface. He doesn’t belong to anyone _here;_ her claim on him has never been in doubt. “Perhaps,” she offers hesitantly, “perhaps more dancing?”

+-+


	6. Chapter 6

They don’t get half a block down the street before the Doctor is leaning precariously off a crate to examine what seems to be a living lantern, dropping round and full like a ripe fruit from a box at the roofline. She stretches a little further and hears Jack chuckle; then his arms snug tight around her waist and the warmth of him presses close full-length along her back. “Not now, Captain, I’m trying to see if these are related to Bolvarian glimmervines,” she says, pushing him away half-heartedly.

Jack nuzzles into her neck and holds on tighter. “They aren’t explosive,” he says, as if that should answer the question.

“I don’t want to _explode_ them, I just -” the Doctor begins, indignant and slightly disappointed. Perhaps they would still work as luminous - well, more paint-balloons than paint-bombs.

“Come on, Doctor,” Jack interrupts softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.” He turns her in his arms, and when she won’t turn all the way he moves to the side so they end up face to face, pressed front to front, without the extra layers of coats in the way, without a bit of distance. For a moment everything feels badly _wrong:_ the way her body fits against his, the way they don’t match anymore in height or mass or shape, the way the softness of her breasts pushes him away, the way she can feel _him_ pressing against her thighs but nothing at all of herself. It’s all wrong, and it’s all just the way she is supposed to be. The Doctor wrenches herself to the side as the sudden wave of dissonance crashes through her, swallows a frustrated sob so it’s just a painful catch in her throat. “I know,” Jack says. He lets her turn, but he doesn’t let go; his breath flows warm against the side of her neck. “I know. Hey. You don’t want to go dancing, really.”

The Doctor takes a breath of the cold salt air laden with the smells of food and fire, lets it out slowly. “No. No, I don’t, but step _back_ , Captain.”

Jack does so with alacrity, shoulders back and spine straightening; his hand jerks upward and he blinks, peers down at it quizzically. “Been a while since I was the saluting type,” he says mildly, eyes returning to the Doctor.

“Always hated when people did that,” she mutters, arms crossed defensively in the sudden lack of Jack’s warmth.

“I know.”

“If you could find your way to making it through the evening without saying _I know_ again,” the Doctor snaps, hopping down from the crate and striding away, “I would appreciate it.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Jack says, somewhat subdued, at her shoulder. He follows without complaint as she wanders, keeping up a running monologue of the history of the town and the Yearnight celebration along with anything she stops to examine, interspersed with cheerful greetings to what seems to be half the people they pass. There are a few nibbles and a few little shops involved, and no dancing at all; he was right that that moment would not have been improved by a noisy crowd but she doesn’t have to admit it.

She _doesn’t_ have to admit it, because he already knows.

She reaches for his hand without looking, and finds it waiting, and walks on.

The sky is an endless expanse of black over their heads, stretching down to the nearly indistinguishable horizon some thirty kilometres distant, when the Doctor finds they have returned to the walled curve of street from which they watched the sundiver earlier, deserted now save for them. She raises Jack’s hand to her lips and kisses his fingers, then lets him go so she can cross her arms on the wall; he follows suit and leans against her shoulder companionably. Staring outward past the glare of light from the city, she asks, “Every year?”

“Every year,” Jack says. Tiny, brightly lit fliers dip and glide above the rooftops in pale imitation, some alone, some in swarms.

“Have you ever done it?”

He chuckles. “It’s very unlucky to survive. You gotta commit to these things.” The Doctor waits, and Jack adds, a little quieter, “Yeah. A long time ago. Different name, disappeared for a while. I… like to know what I’m sending people into, you know?”

“And?” He just shakes his head. He’s right about that, too, she supposes; it doesn’t feel like something she will ever understand. She knows about deathwishes, well enough, but not _celebratory_ ones. “I don’t like it.”

Jack’s mouth opens, but to his credit he catches himself and doesn’t say it. “Nobody’s asking you to,” he says instead, lips twisting up in a wry smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t expect you back next year.”

The Doctor flinches, wraps arms about herself and looks away. The bitterness that ought to accompany such a statement is nearly drowned out by a weary acceptance that encompasses far too many of her faults. “I should go. You must have better things to do, people you could be spending time with who won’t…” _do this, make you unhappy, hurt you as easily as breathing_.

Fingers touch her shoulder, her cheek, tuck her hair behind her ear so lightly she can barely feel them; her eyes prickle with tears and she closes them obstinately. “Please don’t. Maybe I was wrong, maybe you do have to hide from me. If you do, that’s fine, Doctor, it’s alright, just… not on my account, yeah? I told you, I’m glad you’re here."

"Even like this?"

Jack chuckles; his fingers wind their way through her hair, slide down to her shoulder as his arm curves around to pull her close. "What _like this_ , you're gorgeous. I'll be the talk of the town."

Leaning into him, the Doctor sighs. Now that she has stopped moving again, the exhaustion is soaking back in - and in, and in, and surely the weight of it will crush her soon. Could she even make it back to the TARDIS? She thinks so, but… but she is already _here_. And here is Jack. “Aren’t you already?”

“Of course I am.”

“What will they be saying about you in the morning?”

“Ah. Well.” The Doctor tries not to sway as Jack’s arm falls from her shoulders. Turning to face her, he leans an elbow on the wall, crosses his ankles, and begins to tick off on his fingers as he grins. “No doubt my lost love has miraculously returned, here to spirit me away. Or perhaps she’s escaped trial and tribulation and is come to stay. Or perhaps there was no lost love, and I’ve been living the easy life and my past has finally found me.” His smile goes a little softer. “Or perhaps I’m just an old soldier, and a friend has come to visit.”

“That sounds good,” the Doctor agrees; then she jumps and nearly falls at the sudden _pop-pop BANG BANG_ of fireworks erupting much too close overhead.

“Sorry, sorry,” Jack says, arm about her waist to steady her. “It’s just the lightworks starting up, Doctor, it’s alright. They fire off a couple low ones to catch everyone’s attention but it’s not so good for those of us on a hair-trigger, is it.” The breath she takes smells all of Jack, and the Doctor realises she is pressed against him, eyes tight shut, hands clenched in his shirt, and this time it isn’t wrong at all. There is a sense of safety here, so close to his fixed point; if he is a rock in the stream, the Doctor suspects she is a tiny fish, resting in his lee. “There you go,” Jack murmurs into her hair. “You’ll stay? Great view from my flat.”

Somewhere warmer and quieter does sound good. “My friends -”

“They’re fine. If anything happens I’ll hear about it.” He taps his wrist behind her back. “Promise.”

The Doctor nods; the arms around her tighten to crushing strength for a moment as Jack sighs in relief. She has been so caught up in her own misery she forgot about his. “Jack -” He nuzzles, ticklish, at her ear and she laughs. “I’m glad I’m here, too, Jack.”

“I know,” he says, barely audible above the wind; she lets him get away with it this time.

+-+


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finally got this last longish chapter hammered into shape. All the thanks to BookWerm for the beta!_

By the time Jack hauls the Doctor up the steps to his front door she has given up pretending she isn't leaning on him and instead clings tiredly with an arm around his waist, head drooping. If her friends were in sight, Jack knows, she would be all smiles and energy in an instant; she wants so badly to be that carefree traveler, duties and responsibilities laid to rest and left behind. But for him… for him, sometimes, the mask falls away, and of all the things she brings to his life he cherishes these moments the most.

In the warm air inside she does not step away, but burrows closer into his arms. Jack almost can’t make himself let go. “Let me hang up your coat, alright? Hey,” he says gently, as she looks away with a quickly buried flash of embarrassment, “just us chickens, Doc.”

The Doctor rolls her eyes, but it gets her smiling, anyway. “Where chickens equals millennia-old vastly complex spatiotemporal phenomena.”

Carefully, Jack slips her coat from her shoulders, thumbs brushing her collarbone; she lets him slide it down her arms and off. “Is that all we have in common?”

Eyes caught by the light of another volley of fireworks, the Doctor doesn’t answer immediately. Instead she wanders curiously around the corner into the main room. Jack hears her breathe, “Oh, _Jack_ ,” as he hangs her coat and takes off his boots, and when he comes in as well he finds her standing at the centre of the enormous picture window, hands splayed against the glass, drinking in the sight of sea and sky and city all draped in light. Eyes wide to catch every detail, she says quietly, “We both love to see the world.”

Jack stands at her shoulder for a while, watching her, watching his little world here; enjoying the temporary addition of her to it. “Hiding away in the dark,” he says finally, “is not something I do a lot of, here.” The Doctor twists to stare at him in surprise; with a rueful smile and a half shrug Jack leaves her to push the reclining couch closer to the window. "Make yourself comfortable," he invites. "Bathroom there, kitchen is reasonably well stocked if you're still hungry. I'm just going to change clothes."

Unexpectedly the Doctor's face falls. "But that shirt is so soft."

"Oh, I see how it is," Jack teases. "You were just hugging the _shirt_."

"Insufferable ape," the Doctor mutters, a faint flush darkening her cheeks.

Soft it may be, but it’s far too warm for snuggling indoors even with the Doctor’s cooler body temperature - and with any luck she will soon be too asleep to care what he’s wearing. Jack picks the softest replacement he can find, even so. When he returns he finds the Doctor perched uncertainly on the edge of the couch. “Alright?”

“Oh,” she says, flashing him a distracted smile. “Yes, just fine, Jack -” As soon as she looks away the smile disappears, snuffed out like a candle flame. Jack sits down next to her, makes himself comfortable, stretches out an arm invitingly. Very quietly, the Doctor admits, “I think, if I stop…”

“You won’t get back up? That’s the idea.” She shoots him a mildly betrayed look, but wriggles back and allows Jack to pull her down. “Doctor!” he exclaims in dismay when he raises the footrest. “How do you expect to relax with your boots still on?”

“We might have to - _something_ ,” the Doctor says defensively as Jack sits back up to evict the offending items. “There might be rescuing to do. There are a lot of explosives out there. Or, or someone might… invade.”

“Nope,” Jack denies categorically, tossing one boot and then the other to the floor. He turns around, back to the window, so he can pick up her right foot and slide his thumbs across the arch, gently at first, then harder as her initial grumbling turns to inarticulate mumbles; circling her heel, coaxing the stiffness from the ball of her foot, flexing her toes carefully. Moving on to her left foot, Jack watches her finally give in and relax into the soft cushions. “Much better,” he says, returning to her side to slide his left arm beneath her head and roll her against him.

“Much better,” she agrees, muffled by his shirt. “This is very soft too.” Jack laughs; the Doctor squirms around vaguely. "Can't see."

“Don't worry, it’ll be going on all night. They just do the loud stuff first so people can sleep later if they need to,” Jack says, with the friendly derision of an acclimated native. “Pyrotechnics, projectors, flyers - you saw some of them already - the sea -”

“The sea?” The Doctor raises her head to peer down with brief interest to where the waves are limned in a faint but growing phosphorescence. “What, all of it?”

“Oh, yes. Well, the local bit, anyway. Courtesy of a bloom of very smart bioluminescent phytoplankton. We go all out, here.” He pulls her back down and she subsides without complaint, cool breath licking across his skin as she sighs. The arm and leg flung across his chest and hips move in a mindless stroking that is going to drive him to distraction long before she notices what she is doing.

“I need a break, Jack,” the Doctor says after a timeless interlude. “More than a night. I just want… I told them, I’m just a traveler. I can choose to be just a traveler. Can’t I?” She settles heavier against him, knee burrowing snug between his legs. “I’m so tired,” she says, but it feels less like the relaxed sag of exhaustion than an attempt to get closer than close, to sink right into him. “I like them. Do they stay with me?”

“I’m not going to talk about your future, Doc. You know that. And no cheating, either.” She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but the cut-time beat of her hearts flutters too fast against him. For all Jack can’t _feel_ any mental intrusion, he is suddenly terrified that the reason he has seen so much of this face in his past is because the Doctor pushes too hard here, and then avoids any version of him that might call her to account. He can imagine it far too easily for comfort. “We can’t do this if you cheat,” he whispers, begging her not to even as he tenses to push her away.

For a moment she doesn’t even breathe; then she pushes herself up to look down at him. The intermittent light of fireworks and the shifting shadows they cast across her face make it very hard to read her expression, even as close as they are. “You thought I would. You really thought…” _Devastated_ , that’s the expression. Jack reaches for her, apology already on his lips. “I don’t want to be that person, Jack! I know I’ve been unkind to you, but whatever you’re remembering… I can do better. Give me a chance.”

“Always,” Jack promises, tucking away the relief. She is still too fixated on running from her past to worry about her future. “Any day you need a chance, Doctor, I’ll be here.” His hand finds the smooth curve of her cheekbone and she leans into his touch, closes her eyes as his thumb soothes away the distress from her brow.

“I can be better.”

“Shh. It’s alright, Doctor. You don’t have to be anything for me.”

The Doctor bends down to kiss him then, a brief press of lips, and lays her head down on his shoulder again, smiling at the reappearance of that soppy grin. More of her weight is on him now, the thigh between his legs pressing insistently, arm curled around under his opposite shoulder, clinging with an unaffected innocence Jack can’t bear to spoil yet. “Tell me about… here, then,” the Doctor says. “Why here? What do you do, besides paragliding? How long have you been here?”

Left arm holding her close, Jack lets his hand roam up and down her back aimlessly, right hand carding the hair spilling over her face, his shoulder, and begins to tell her. How he keeps this life so carefully separate, how diligently he guards this world’s history; how he only stays for a few years at a time, and how awkward it is to have been away for sixty or a hundred years when greeting neighbors who think they saw one just yesterday. Always a bit out of step, a bit distant.

“Is that why - is there _really_ a general warning about you?”

He waves a hand carelessly at himself. “Who wouldn’t love this?” It’s been easier, since his friends decided he must be either pining or mourning, because when he comes here he isn’t looking for entanglements. He comes here for the brightness, for the way life here flares up and burns out with a beauty so intense he can only take a little of it at a time, punctuation and palate cleanser to the years that go on and on and on.

“You never change,” the Doctor sighs as she nuzzles into his shirt. It’s not true, but it’s not something he needs to argue with, either. What of him is important to the Doctor, those parts don’t change. “And you’re very comfortable.”

“No, I’m not.” Jack fails to completely stifle a moan as she shifts and it comes out unfortunately pitiful sounding. “Oh, mercy, Doctor, please,” he groans, giving up.

“What?” Startled, she raises her head to see his face, which just shifts her weight _again_ \- “Oh. _Oh_ ,” she says, leaning much more purposefully as Jack arches up against her. “I like that look on you, Captain.” Cool fingers are working up under his shirt now as the Doctor watches him curiously.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

She smirks. “I suppose I am. Oh, is this a _cock tease?_ Am I a cock tease?” She says it like it might be some clever new experiment. He had wanted her to figure out the point of it all, hadn’t he? Why had he wanted that, again?

Laughing helplessly, Jack closes his eyes and pulls her tight against him. “You’ve always been a cock tease. Have mercy on us both and go to sleep.”

The Doctor wrinkles her nose at him in confusion. “You want me to leave you like this?”

“If you followed through it wouldn’t be a cock tease, would it? You can tease me to within an inch of my life and I’ll enjoy every minute of it, and you know it. Don’t you dare start doing things you don’t want to do.” That strange uncertainty crosses her face again, that uneasiness of feeling out her new borders, finding out who she is. Jack knows the uncertainty with _him_ doesn’t last, and that’s good enough for him. Carefully he spills her to the side and off him with a last little buck of his hips and an accompanying moan to amuse her. “Some other time.”

“Alright,” the Doctor agrees, eyes bright and thoughtful. “I do like that look on you.”

“I _know_.”

“Do you.” But she lets it go, and settles down on his shoulder again, watching the lightworks through the window.

Jack talks, and gradually the Doctor’s head lays heavier against him, her arm across his chest falling still. When he stops speaking she mumbles something Jack can’t make out. All her incarnations sleep a little differently: bowtie-and-braces had tangled himself up with Jack like an overly friendly octopus, eyebrows had hardly liked to touch. This one is somewhere in the middle. After some sleepy rolling she ends up curled on her side, back pressed tightly against Jack, toes just touching his knee. He drapes a blanket over them both, then folds his arms behind his head and settles in to keep watch through the night, curved protectively around his oldest friend.

The midwinter sun won’t rise until midmorning so it is still dark when the Doctor wakes, lightworks and the bright tide of people in the city subdued but still active. She doesn’t startle awake, which surprises Jack; she rarely sleeps anywhere but the TARDIS and this is certainly not that refuge. Instead the deep, even breaths by which Jack has measured most of the night pause momentarily, then resume slightly shallower, slightly quicker, and she says in a sleep-soaked mumble, “Jack.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, throat gone tight, and rolls to his side to put an arm around her and snug her up against him. “Still here.”

“Y’r always here,” she says dismissively. “Y’r a Fact.” But she lets him hold her whilst she gets her brains woken up; Jack, in turn, lets himself be pushed away when she uncurls to stretch expansively. “Very comfortable,” she says, and yawns. “Wonder what kind of bedroom the TARDIS cooked up for me this time. Hasn’t been any time for exploring yet.”

“I’m always up for investigating bedrooms,” Jack assures her as he stretches as well. The Doctor bounces up from the couch without looking at him and Jack sighs. New day, new discomforts. It’s going to be a while until she is entirely easy in her own skin again.

“I didn’t say you were invited,” she mutters.

It might have stung, if he weren’t very, very used to it by now. “Not a morning person this time?”

Opening her mouth for a surly retort, the Doctor abruptly remembers how she spent the night and catches herself with a chagrined look. “No, guess not. Sorry.”

"Don't worry about it. Happy new year,” he adds, and doesn’t laugh at the Doctor’s minimally successful attempt at a sincere response. Folding the couch back in, Jack drops a kiss on her hair and leaves her standing at the window as he goes to make them both a cup of the closest thing he has to tea. It doesn’t help her mood much, which is disappointing but not unexpected. “You,” Jack says, shaking his head at her over his mug after she refuses breakfast, “are a big old grump this morning. No wonder the TARDIS brought you here.” Little bit of rest and relaxation, little bit of repair and recalibration. All of it necessary, and none of it more important than the others, for his lonely pair of travelers.

Just finishing lacing her boots, the Doctor huffs, distinctly grumpily. “I doubt I’m interested in whatever solution Captain Jack Harkness has thought up.”

“Hey, come on,” Jack says, amused. Playboy he might be, but if the Doctor ever gets caught up in that part of his life, it’s never _Jack’s_ fault. “Give me some credit, Doctor. I’ve known you a long time, you know. I know just what you need.” Still half turned away, she scowls at him. Jack smiles and holds out a hand. “Come on, let’s go tinker.”

It’s not the sunrise that lights up her face, but it’s something close.

+-+

  



End file.
